Making sense of motherhood

They don’t understand why I sit in the car on my own sometimes. Or why I go for long walks alone.

They don’t understand why I microwave my coffee a lot. Or why I eat their leftovers.

They don’t understand why I encourage them to go to bed earlier some nights. Or why I’m in a better mood when we don’t see each other over and over in the early hours of the morning.

They don’t understand why I take too long in the toilet, or hand them to their father when he gets home.

They don’t understand why I talk to them through trembling lips sometimes, or why I have to focus hard on my breathing.

They don’t understand why I’m apologising when we arrive anywhere, or why it’s easier to stay home some days.

But they also don’t understand why there are photos of mostly them on the walls. Or why I have little boxes with their names on them under their beds.

They don’t understand why I keep their clothes that are far too small, or their toys that they are far too big for.

They don’t understand why I have their perfect little faces as my screen saver, or their ultrasound photos in my wallet.

They don’t understand why I cry when they tell me they love me. Or why I hold on until they are ready to let go.

They don’t understand just yet.

But I do.

I understand what it takes to be their mother and love them with all of me.

I understand that although motherhood doesn’t always make sense, being their mother does.

I understand that this is the best thing I’ve ever done and will ever do.

And maybe one day they will too.